


Silent Noon

by likeabluethread



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Inspired by Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeabluethread/pseuds/likeabluethread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, Haruhi, you're so dense. Mori confesses - silently. (Recently moved from FF.net -- this was my first fanfic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Noon

Fujioka Haruhi trudged wearily towards Music Room 3 after her classes had ended for the day. The strap of her bookbag was cutting into her shoulder; her teachers were merciless this time of year, and she had nearly double her normal load of books to take home. She sighed and shook her head. The last thing she needed to be doing right now was swanning around, drinking tea in some outlandish costume. She needed to study. Her English class had suddenly leapt up to top the list of her worries, and it disconcerted her; languages were usually her strong suit! At least it was Friday; a few more hours, and she could devote the weekend to studying. She squared her shoulders and reached for the heavy door into her own private world of indentured labor.

“Haru-chan!” cried a familiar voice, and she suddenly found a small blonde presence suspended from her right arm. Haninozuka Mitsukuni had rocketed over to be the first to greet her.

“Hi, Honey-senpai,” she grinned, not able to resist his adoring eyes. “Hi, everyone,” she added, turning to the assembled boys of the Host Club. The words had barely escaped her mouth when she half-choked in surprise.

They were all wearing kilts.

She smiled weakly as everyone greeted her distractedly and turned back to their tasks. Suou Tamaki was in full dress attire, in a cheerful red tartan complete with short tuxedo jacket and black bowtie. He was deep in conversation with Ootori Kyoya, whose sedate black-navy-emerald tartan went well with a simpler style of jacket; dinner attire rather than black-tie. The Hitachiin twins were busily trying to wrangle each other’s ties into place; they were wearing emerald green jackets with a green-based tartan that, with their red hair and amber eyes, made them look like puckish little earth-sprites. She shuddered at the image. They didn’t need magic to get into any more trouble! Finally, her eyes settled on Morinozuka Takashi, and she suppressed a gasp. He was sitting on the window-ledge, one long leg propped up on the sill, tartan fabric tumbling naughtily down his muscular thigh, his face silhouetted by the afternoon sun; his kilt was the eighteenth-century style great-kilt, a huge piece of fabric wrapped and belted to make both kilt and shoulder-wrap, worn over a simple white linen shirt. She’d read that a kilt like that could act as a tent in even the worst Scottish weather, and wondered for half a moment what it would be like to share a tartan tent with Mori. Shocked at the boldness of her own imagination, she shook her head to clear such images away. He had been facing away, one elbow propped on his knee and his face sharply silhouetted against the glass in the afternoon light, but he turned towards her and nodded evenly in greeting, his expression unchanging. Their eyes met; she blushed furiously and looked away. It happened almost every day. 

“Are you OK, Haru-chan?” Honey asked from her side, where she’d nearly forgotten him. She looked down at him and smiled reassuringly. He was beyond adorable in a little boy’s version of Mori’s great kilt, his white shirt adorned with a ruffled lacy jabot, a little bonnet perched on his golden curls.

“Fine, Honey-senpai. You look like a little Rob Roy MacGregor!” He laughed his bubbling little laugh and pirouetted to give her the full view of his outfit, holding out one leg so she could admire the knee-high stockings and shoes whose laces crisscrossed to just above his ankles. She couldn’t keep her eyes from flicking over to Mori again; his clothing was much simpler than Honey’s, but every detail that was missing from his costume just called attention to the perfection that lay _under_ the clothes. Simple leather shoes emphasized strong, shapely calves; simple open-collared shirt emphasized broad shoulders and chiseled collarbone ... she couldn’t keep up that line of thought too long; her mouth had gone dry. She shook her head again. “I guess I’m going to have to get into some kind of ridiculous getup like this too, huh?”

“Ridiculous!” Tamaki shouted, having finished his business with Kyoya. “I’ll have you know, Haruhi, that this is the proud and noble costume of the ancient Celtic warrior! This is a tradition that—”

“Was invented in the eighteenth century, senpai, but whatever,” she interrupted, in no mood for his posturing today. “Can I just get changed? I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

The twins popped up on either side of Tamaki, making him start. “It’s true, boss,” they chorused. “The teachers are loading us down with work,” Kaoru started; “and we’re not even in some of Haruhi’s advanced classes!” Hikaru finished.

“This will not stand!” Tamaki cried, one finger shooting dramatically towards the ceiling. “Haruhi,” the finger fell until it was inches from the tip of Haruhi’s nose, “you are not allowed to miss out on your club activities for academic reasons! Your first duty is to your loving family! Daddy would never allow his child to neglect such an important ...”

“Sure, fine, whatever,” she grumbled, heading for the prep room. “But remember, boss, if I fail my classes, I’m going to lose my scholarship and have to leave Ouran forever, and then I’ll never be able to pay off my debt!” She’d managed to shut the door just in time; Tamaki slammed against it, wailing apologies and swearing to be sensitive to her needs in the future. She sighed.

A few puzzling minutes later, she decided that she must be wearing the thing right and inspected herself in the mirror. She’d been given a modified modern kilt with tux jacket and black tie accoutrements; the tartan was a dusty blue, and the wool was much softer than she’d thought it would be. Fine. Whatever. It’d be over soon.

She made it out just in time to take her place in formation as the main door swung open, rose petals scattering a cloud of elegance and grace around the awestruck girls who gathered in the hall outside. She took a deep breath, smiled gamely, and welcomed her first customer.

 

***

 

Before she knew it, the afternoon was over, she’d changed back into her uniform, and it was time to go home. She hoisted her yellow bag, wincing at a shooting pain in her right shoulder; had she pulled something? She shook her head. She’d rest it when midterms were over. Turning to say goodbye to her friends, she started to find Tamaki standing close to her, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Behind him stood Kyoya, face blank but a merciless glint in his eye.

“Uh, senpai?” she asked tentatively. “I, uh – I need to get home. See you tomorrow, yeah?” Tamaki was silent.  
  
It was creepy.

Finally, Kyoya reached out and jammed the head of his pen into the small of Tamaki’s back, goading him into action. Tamaki whimpered, but straightened and looked Haruhi in the eye.

“Haruhi!” he barked, much louder than necessary. She recoiled towards the door; what had gotten into him today? At least he had the grace to look abashed. “Haruhi,” he said again, softer. “I just want you to know ...” he took a deep breath, and sank to one knee with a flourish, offering her one flawlessly-manicured hand. “We will support you in your hour of need! The Host Club is here for you – anything you need, just say the word, and we will help you! We’ll do your housework for you ...”

“What?!” Haruhi heard the twins muttering over Tamaki’s grand proclamation, “Has the boss ever done any kind of housework before? For that matter, what do _any_ of us know about housework?”

“... we’ll do your shopping for you ...”

“I can hardly sanction stretching the club budget for such a pedestrian problem,” Kyoya interjected smoothly; “either we shop with her money or we add it to her debt.”

“...we’ll tutor you ...” Tamaki paused, waiting for the inevitable protests that generally followed his outlandish ideas. What he heard was deafening silence. He rose and looked around; all eyes were on him, including Haruhi’s. His violet eyes lit up. “That’s it! Haruhi, we _will_ tutor you! We’ll help you through your piles of work, and then all your time will be freed up again for the Host Club!” He did a little wiggly victory dance, thrilled at having solved his darling daughter’s problems.

“That’s really sweet of you to offer, senpai, but ...”

“No buts!” he cried, one fist clenched in determination. “Haruhi, what is it you need help with?”

“Um ... English poetry,” she admitted sheepishly. “I’ve always liked English class, but the teacher chucked some poetry at us just this week, and it’s so much harder than the prose ... I’m kind of struggling with it.” She smiled weakly and looked at her companions’ faces, to find that the triumphant atmosphere of the room had evaporated.

“Poetry?!” the twins cried in unison. “You’re a first-year!” Hikaru interjected. “Why are you reading poetry?” Kaoru’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he added, “We’re still reading children’s books!”

“Well, I was bumped up into the advanced class; I’m the only first-year in the class,” she explained feebly. She turned to Tamaki, who was staring at her in crestfallen disbelief. “Uh, senpai?”

“I don’t think we’re able to help you,” Kyoya explained smoothly. “Neither Tamaki nor I has any experience with English poetry, having chosen to study business English rather than literature.”

“Me, too,” added Honey, looking up at her despondently.

“Oh.” She was a little disappointed, she admitted to herself; it would have been nice to have a guiding hand with some of this stuff. Oh, well. “No problem, senpai; I’ll be fine! Midterms will be over in a couple weeks anyway, so I’ll just have to ...”

“I’ll help,” a quiet voice interrupted. All eyes turned toward the window, where Mori sat next to Honey’s pink bunny Usa-chan. He regarded them solemnly.

“That’s right, Taka-kun!” Honey cried, bouncing over to his cousin. “I forgot you took English lit last year! And you really liked the poetry, didn’t you?” Mori nodded silently, his face still expressionless.

“I – uh,” Haruhi’s heart had stopped at the thought of spending time alone with Mori; she was having a hard time getting her thoughts in order. Which, she reflected, might mean that studying with him was a _terrible_ idea. “Mori-senpai, are you sure? Don’t you have some kind of a tournament this weekend?” 

“That’s right,” Honey answered for his taciturn friend. “The big kendo championship is all day Sunday, and you’ve got kyudo _and_ aikido competitions tomorrow, right Taka-kun?” 

Mori nodded slightly. “Between.”

“You’ll help me study between two major competitions tomorrow?” Haruhui said disbelievingly. This couldn’t be happening. He was so busy; surely he’d need that time for his own work! And in any case, his presence unnerved her at the best of times – she shouldn’t agree to this. She met his eyes for a moment, and felt like her bones were melting. She couldn’t help herself. “If you’re sure I won’t be inconveniencing you too much ...” He nodded again, turning his disconcerting gaze away. She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Fantastic! Thank you so much, Mori-senpai. Where should I meet you?”

“The park at eleven.”

“Are you sure I won’t be taking up too much of your time? I really don’t want to eat up all the spare time in your weekend ...”

He nodded again, and turned back to the window. Conversation over.

 

***

 

The next morning found Haruhi in the grass under the cherry trees at the park, getting a few hours’ work in before Mori was to join her. She insisted to herself that it was just good sense, and that she wasn’t being driven to study for fear of making an idiot of herself in front of someone she admired. That wasn’t it at all.  She just needed to use all the time she had to study, that’s all; no sense in wasting valuable daylight hours waiting! That’s all. She sighed and scowled at the book in front of her, idly brushing a curious dragonfly off the page. The poem she was currently struggling with had funny accents all over the place, and it seemed like half the words were in places they shouldn’t be. And the other half of the words looked like nonsense. She groaned and scrubbed her eyes. He’d be here in another half-hour or so; she hoped she could figure some of it out by then.

“You’re early.” She jumped, slamming the book shut and gasping so hard she choked. Coughing, she turned to see Mori leaning silently against the cherry tree, looking for all the world like an ancient hero in his black hakama and white keiko-gi, a tall bow slung over one shoulder. She lay one hand on the grass to steady herself and closed her eyes briefly, trying desperately to calm her breathing. Opening her eyes again, she smiled up at him.

“I wanted to get as much studying in today as I possibly could.” Her heart was still pounding in her throat. She shook her head and laughed shakily. “Jeez, Mori-senpai, you really startled me!”

“Sorry.” He lay his bow across the large grey gym bag that lay at his feet, crossed his legs, and sank down onto the grass beside her, holding out his hand in a silent request for the book she’d been looking at. She reopened it to the troublesome poem and handed it to him. His eyes widened slightly, the almost-imperceptible change in his carefully neutral expression Haruhi’s only clue that what he saw surprised him. “Hopkins.”

“Yeah, I’m having a really hard time with this one. It seems like half the words aren’t actually words!” She looked at him expectantly, but he didn’t respond. Dappled light, filtered through pink blossom and green leaf, flitted over his features, making her breath catch in her throat. _God, he’s handsome_ , she thought. _This was a terrible idea_. It probably was, too; he was distracting her with his nearness, and he didn’t seem inclined to be much more talkative – how could he explain things to her without opening his mouth?

He lay one hand on the grass behind her and effortlessly shifted himself close to her. Her knee grazed softly against his thigh, sending a jolt of electricity through her whole body; her toes were tingling, her arms trembling with adrenaline. She bit her lip and looked up at him; though his face was expressionless as always, she felt as though his eyes were burning into her, dark with some strong emotion she’d never seen there before. She suddenly realized that she’d been gazing breathlessly up at him, lips parted and eyes wide, like some starstruck fangirl. She closed her mouth resolutely, looked unseeingly at her hands as they twisted in her lap, and tried to ignore the pounding of her heart in her ears. At the edge of her vision, she saw him look away for a moment before laying half the book on her thigh, half on his own. One long finger pointed to a word, and he looked at her expectantly, his eyes back to their normal calm.

“Yeah –” Her voice cracked; she cleared her throat. “Yeah, that’s one of them. ‘Wanwood.’ It’s not in any of my dictionaries.” He shook his head, and she looked up at him, confused. What was he trying to tell her?

He sighed softly. “It’s two words.”

“Two – oh! Wan, like pale?” He nodded. She looked at the poem again, suddenly seeing those nonsense words in a new light. “So Goldengrove isn’t a real place – it’s just ... he’s just evoking a place, is that it? And ‘leafmeal’ ...” she paused, flicking quickly through her dictionary for secondary meanings of ‘meal.’ “Uh. Well, it’s surely not the food meaning, and it can’t be from grain if it’s leaves, so ... ‘ground powdery substance?’” He nodded. She scowled down at the text for a moment. Ground ... like, ground up underfoot? No, this forest he’s conjuring doesn’t seem to have much human influence. What else causes leaves to crumble?

“Rot!” she cried triumphantly. One of Mori’s eyebrows twitched upwards; she was immediately abashed by her enthusiasm. As he watched the blush creep up her throat and across her cheeks, a corner of his mouth quirked up. “I mean, uh ... ‘wanwood leafmeal’ is about death, right? Wood that’s pale and dried up, like driftwood, and leaves that have rotted away to powder?” Mori nodded, allowing a small smile to crinkle his eyes. She grinned triumphantly. “OK! Maybe I can get this after all ...”

The morning drifted past, clouds chasing each other lazily across the sky, as Haruhi continued to struggle with the poem. Bit by bit, with gentle nudges from Mori when she went off-course, she teased apart the strange word-order and unusual images, delighting as the poem gradually opened up to her. Suddenly she laughed out loud, earning her a sideways glance from her silent companion.

“Sorry, Mori-senpai, it’s just – this is a really beautiful poem, isn’t it?” She grinned up at him, exhilaration making her chest feel tight, as though it were too small for her heart. “It’s like watching a lotus open – I can feel myself understanding more and more of it, and the more I understand, the more I appreciate the way it all fits together. It’s a real work of art!” He smiled down at her, something in his eyes making her breath hitch.

From across town, a bell started to toll. “Good grief,” she said, pulling out her phone to check the time. “Is it noon already?” Mori was looking away again, his face a study in serenity. “Um – are you hungry, Mori-senpai? I made you lunch, since, you know – since you’re giving up part of your weekend to help me out.” He looked at her in surprise, but nodded. She grabbed her bag, and dug inside it for the two bentos she’d prepared that morning, handing the larger one to her companion. She was a little embarrassed that it was all she could offer him in compensation, but at least she was reasonably confident in her abilities as a cook. She’d been working hard to expand her repertoire of dinners; her mother’s worn recipe-cards were all she’d used for a long time, but she and her father had finally tired of the same old standbys. Today’s lunch was a recipe she’d been tinkering with for weeks, trying to get just the right balance of flavors. She looked surreptitiously over at the silent giant next to her, feeling strangely nervous as he took the first bite. His eyebrows shot up; that might be the most reaction she’d ever gotten out of him! She bit her lip, worried she’d overdone it on the hot peppers. He glanced at her, catching her eye and making her blush again. She shouldn’t have been staring, should she ... she looked away.

“Delicious,” he said softly.

“Huh?” She must have misheard him. She built up her courage to look back over at him; he was still looking at her, amusement quirking at the corners of his lips.

“The food. It’s awesome.”

“Oh! Oh, uh – thanks, senpai.” Blushing furiously, she turned to her own meal, and they ate in companionable silence, watching the shadows of the cherry blossoms chase the dragonflies across the grass.

After lunch, Haruhi flopped backwards on the grass, not quite ready to face a new poem. She turned her head to the side, enjoying the gentle prickle of the long grass under her cheek, and smiled broadly at the tall man who sat silently beside her. He looked at her as though considering something, then lay back beside her, his arms above his head. Her pulse raced at the nearness of him; lying down next to him felt almost like they were doing something ... forbidden. She looked up at his muscular arm, mere inches from her face, and saw his fingertips peeking through the blades of grass like rosebuds. A breeze brushed over them, sending a shower of cherry petals whirling through the air in a crazy dance; she smelled crushed grass and a hint of fresh sweat, with something else, something she couldn’t quite place ... she realized suddenly that it was Mori. She closed her eyes, wanting both to hide her confusion and embarrassment and to commit this moment to her memory for the rest of her life. Lying in the grass with Mori. She smiled.

She hadn’t realized she’d lost all sense of time until Mori sat up, and she realized she didn’t know if they’d been like that for five minutes or two hours. He pulled a notebook out of his bag and rooted around for a pen.

“What’s up?” Haruhi asked softly, sitting up and stretching her arms over her head. It had been longer than five minutes; her muscles were protesting against the sudden movement. He didn’t answer; he was writing something down on a sheet of paper. She scooted back until her back rested against the rough bark of the cherry tree, and shut her eyes.

“Here,” he said finally. Her eyes snapped open to find him offering her a piece of paper with a poem written on it. “Translate that.” As she reached for it, she thought she saw his hand tremble -- looking over at him, she realized he’d gone a bit pale.

“Are you OK, Mori-senpai?” she asked, her brow furrowing in concern. He nodded, his expression unflinching. “OK ...” She frowned. He was breathing faster than he normally did, too. Something was strange. If he was in pain, would he tell her? What in the world was going on?

Trusting her instinct, she reached over to him and lay a hand on his arm, feeling the muscle leap under her touch. When he looked down at her, his neutral face looked strained, as though it had suddenly become a struggle to maintain his normal equilibrium. “Just ... tell me if there’s anything I can do to help you, OK, senpai?” He met her eyes for a single heart-stopping moment and nodded once.

She turned her attention back to the piece of paper he’d given her. It was a sonnet, she realized, pleased to have recognized the form so quickly. She couldn’t believe that Mori could just write a poem down like that – it must be one of his favorites, she thought, irrationally, unspeakably pleased that he’d share it with her. He’d written the author’s name at the end – Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a name she thought she knew, though she knew she’d never read his poetry before. Where had she ... ? She shook her head. Doesn’t matter. Grabbing her dictionary, she went through the poem briefly and jotted down the meanings of the unfamiliar words before going back and trying to make sense of them all together.

 

_Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, --_

 Wow, she thought. Talk about appropriate to the moment!

_The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:  
_

She shivered at how eerily the poem echoed the silent sentiments of her heart a few short minutes earlier. She glanced over at Mori, who was resolutely watching his feet. 

_Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms_  
 _’Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass._  


She couldn’t help but glance up at the sky, where fluffy clouds were still playing their lazy game of tag.

_All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,_  
 _Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge_  
 _Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge._

The image made her smile – she’d never seen cow-parsley or kingcup, but she could imagine a field of gold and white wildflowers easily enough, especially when fallen cherry petals lay scattered around her like flower-buds.

_’Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.  
_

Still as the hour-glass. This poem ... this poem was too close, it was too real. It was too much like their day together. Is that why he’d given it to her? Was he trying to tell her something? She looked over at him again; he was watching her face, now. His expression hadn’t changed, but that heat, that scorching heat, that heat that melted her to her core had returned to his gaze. She swallowed hard and turned back to the poem, her heart hammering in her throat.

_Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly_  
 _Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: --_  
 _So this wing’d hour is dropt to us from above._

Winged hour ... an hour that flies? Dropped from above – like a gift from heaven? Was Mori saying that he enjoyed spending time with her? She closed her eyes, almost not wanting to finish the poem, for fear she’d read something to spoil the breathless happiness that was washing over her. Forcing herself to continue, she read,

_Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,_  
 _This close-companioned inarticulate hour_  

YES, her heart cried. That’s what it felt like. A close-companioned, inarticulate hour. No need for words. And she would clasp it to her heart, and never forget the feel of the grass under her cheek, the scent of cherry blossoms and grass and Mori on the breeze, the half-secret smiles he’d given her ... the fact he’d given her this poem. _This_ poem. Her eyes skimmed over the final line, and her heart stopped.

_When twofold silence was the song of love._

 

 

She stared at the final line, stunned beyond words, beyond thought. He couldn’t mean that. It must have just been the only poem he could remember. But she had a whole book of poems – he didn’t have to give her one at all. But Mori? Love?

Her?

Mustering all her courage, she looked up from the paper in her trembling hands and met his gaze. He sat watching her, tense and focused on her reaction. His lips were pressed tight together, a muscle in his jaw working; his pulse was hammering visibly in the hollow of his throat.

“Mori-senpai,” she whispered. His eyes were devouring her; she could feel adrenaline singing through her veins, and tried to say something, to say anything. No sound came out. He shifted slightly, rising to one knee and laying a hand on the tree-trunk next to her head. Slowly, slowly, giving her plenty of time to protest if she wanted to, he brought his long form closer to hers, finally stopping when they were so close she could feel his breath fanning across her cheek. As he inclined his head towards her, Haruhi felt her eyelids flutter closed. When his lips touched hers, fire shot through her whole body, making her fingers tingle; the poem fell to the ground as she raised a trembling hand to stroke his cheek, drawing him closer to her. He angled his head farther and kissed her harder, and she felt the flick of his tongue at her lips, as though it were asking for permission. She granted it. He groaned against her mouth as suddenly their tongues were tangled together in a sensuous dance, stealing her breath entirely and making her body dissolve into his. His strong hand was stroking her cheek, tracing her jaw, sliding up into her hair; she twined her little arms around his neck and pulled him even deeper into the kiss.

When he finally ended the kiss, both of them were panting. She looked up at him as though to ask why he’d pulled back. He stroked her cheek with the pad of one big thumb, tracing back and forth across her cheekbone. She closed her eyes at the sweetness of the unfamiliar sensation. “Mori-senpai,” she breathed.

“Takashi,” he rumbled softly. She opened her eyes, and found him regarding her with an intensity that left her breathless. Did he really want her to ...? He leaned in closer to her, his breath now hot on her ear and neck. “Say it,” he whispered as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin at her nape, sending gooseflesh down her arm.

“Takashi!” she gasped into his hair as his mouth scraped down her shoulder. She ran her fingers up into his hair and fisted them there as his mouth came back to claim hers in a hot, demanding kiss. She gasped against his mouth, and he drew back suddenly, as if afraid he’d crossed a line; he turned his eyes away, his mouth twisting. She watched him, breathless, as he struggled to regain the composure he wore so effortlessly most of the time. Had she done something wrong?

Uncertain of what to do, she reached out to him, running her hand along his cheek; he captured her little hand under one of his big ones, and turned his face to plant a kiss on her palm. “Mmm,” she breathed, pleasure coursing through her. “Takashi ...” His hand tightened convulsively around hers and he surged back toward her, his hands slipping around her back, pulling her from the tree to crush her against his chest. “Takashi ...” she whispered again, twining her arms around his neck and threading her fingers through his hair. He clutched her tight against him; she could feel his heart pounding under her, his chest heaving with suppressed emotion. She held him, little hands stroking his hair, his neck, the tight muscles of his shoulders under the crisp white fabric of his shirt.

Finally, he loosed his hold on her, pulling back far enough to look into her eyes. She smiled shyly and ran her knuckles along his cheek, then leaned close into him until her lips were all but touching his ear.

“I love you too.”


End file.
